“Cor, Harry, tell me that's not all yours!”

Ron's appalled yelp did nothing to help the headache pounding dully at Harry's temples-- a full-blown migraine knocking insistently against his skull, waiting to be let in. He sighed and pulled half of the enormous stack of parchment and books closer to him across the table.

“I wish,” he grunted back, looking hopelessly at the prompt for his Transfiguration essay: 'List and explain the four primary theories of inter-species modifications and discuss the similarities and differences of each.' The whole thing looked like a miserable, confusing blur of impossibility.

“Have you been doing any homework this semester?” Ron asked, flopping down in the chair across the table, almost disappearing behind the pile of work between them. Only the top of his forehead and red hair, blazing copper in the dying firelight, were visible. This was, perhaps, fortunate, since it meant Ron couldn't see the nasty glare Harry sent him as he dipped his quill jerkily into his inkwell.

“When am I supposed to've done it? Between Quidditch and detention I haven't even had time to sleep!” He groused irritably, scrawling a heading along the top of his parchment. The back of his hand burned uncomfortably when the quill-tip touched the paper. He swallowed hard, and dashed off his name below the heading.

“Well, at least you don't have to sit with the old toad tonight,” Ron said bracingly, his voice floating overtop the books and papers. “First night free in over a week for you, innit?”

“Until the next time she decides to give me a detention.” He answered darkly. Umbridge had now had him for four weeks running-- even after the first two weeks, he was somehow unable to keep his mouth shut and his head down in her class. “We've got Defense tomorrow, just in time for a Friday detention and a load more next week. I'll no doubt be violating Educational Decree Number Eight Hundred and Thirty Four: No student with black hair shall wear glasses in the classroom.”

“It's hardly a laughing matter,” Hermione's voice declared darkly from behind him. She threw herself into the seat next to him with much less than her usual poise. “She's put another two up. Ron and I saw her heading into her office with them when we were finishing up rounds.” She shook her head, biting her lip anxiously. “I just don't know, Harry. This whole thing is getting out of control. There's ministry involvement and then there's this...” Her eyes flashed down to his hand as she spoke, and Harry felt as if she could read the words carved into his flesh even through the bandages covering them. “Do you need more Murtlap?” She asked him anxiously.

Harry's head was pounding; his body ached with fatigue from weeks of late nights spent torturing himself. His entire hand burned and throbbed with sharp pain, worsened by the act of holding the quill in his hand as he tried to finish the introductory paragraph on his essay. “I can't write if I'm soaking my hand, can I?” He'd tried to make his tone light, but in only came out sounding peevish and miserable. He scowled and bent more intently over his work.

Hermione sighed and looked around the nearly empty common room with a weariness that seemed to come from more than just the latening hour. “There must be something we can do,” she murmured, gaze turning back to him imploringly. “If you'd just go to Professor McGonagall, or--”

“Drop it!” The snarl erupted from him so fiercely he even startled himself.

An uncomfortable silence was left between them, logs popping loudly on the hearth. “I'm sorry,” Harry muttered unhappily, rubbing at his left temple with his free hand. “I'm just...” The explanation trailed away into nothing.

Ron cleared his throat nervously and, after a moment, said, “Y'know, I finished that Divinations sheet, if you still need to get that done. I figure if you just switch around my answers, that'll be good enough. I'll just--” And he was up and moving towards the stairs without finishing his thought.

Hermione didn't even say a word in disapproval. Harry guessed he must look as exhausted as he felt. He couldn't believe Winter Hols hadn't even come yet. It seemed he'd spent ten years at Hogwarts already this term, with endless nights spent trapped in that office with that evil hag, or lost in his uneasy dreams and disturbing nightmares. Everything seemed to be getting further and further out of his grasp, as if he'd never catch up, never have a moment's rest again. Even the cheery warmth of the Gryffindor common room seemed to be a distant thing, somehow separate from Harry himself.

“You know,” Hermione said suddenly, and Harry braced himself for a reprimand. “The way Ascher's Theory and Eag's Theory relate in these modifications-- with the spinal construction being the basis of the spell's stability-- it's actually a very good starting point for explaining the similarities and differences between each theory respectively.” And as Ron returned to the table, worksheet in hand, she continued on: “Ascher states that...”

As he scribbled away, Harry, head pounding and hand burning, couldn't help but smile. If nothing else, he had the best friends anyone could ever ask for.

----------

But even the greatest friends couldn't stop him from waking up the next morning feeling simply terrible. His throat was scratchy and dry, his eyes felt itchy and swollen in his head. The headache had intensified to a nausea-inducing pain that hovered just below debilitating.

His hand was the worst of it. When he opened his eyes that morning, groggy and sick, his first thought was that he'd fallen asleep in front of the hearth and his hand had caught fire. The writing wounds burned and throbbed and sent lancing pain all through his hand, shooting needles of hot agony up his arm. Afraid of what he'd find, he didn't look underneath the wrappings covering the abused skin on the back of his hand. Instead, now running late, he dragged himself out of bed and staggered down to breakfast.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped upon seeing him, fork-full of scrambled eggs suspended in midair, forgotten. “You look completely terrible!”

“Thanks,” Harry croaked back at her, sipping at some pumpkin juice, trying to soothe his throat. The Great Hall was too bright and too loud and the smell of the bangers on Ron's plate beside him turned his stomach. He set the goblet down hurriedly.

“I'm serious! I thought you looked a bit peaky last night, but I assumed you were just tired. I think--” And her hand was resting against his forehead before he could so much as flinch about it. “Yes, I'm positive you've got a fever.”

“You should go to Pomfrey, mate,” Ron said helpfully through a full mouth. Harry closed his eyes queasily. “She'll fix you up quick and you'll get out of Defense, for sure!”

“I can't miss Defense,” he said. “You know she'll give me a detention no matter what reason I've got.”

Neither of them argued that. “Well, at least go see Pomfrey after then? That's Charms, and you know Professor Flitwick won't mind--”

“Can't,” Harry said again, tightly, eyes scanning the Head Table absently. Umbridge was gaily trying to engage a sour-faced McGonagall in conversation. Flitwick was chatting cheerily with Sprout. Snape, unamused by something Dumbledore offered him from the table, turned his head and glared darkly out at the students, his sharp gaze meeting directly with Harry's. Hurriedly, Harry looked away.

“Why not?” Hermione demanded.

“I think...I think I'm feeling like this because of my hand,” he admitted reluctantly, the words barely audible over the breakfast din.

Hermione breathed out sharply. “Let me see--”

“Not here, Hermione!” He hissed, yanking the appendage away from her, trying not to whimper at the sheer amount of pain it caused.

“Come on then,” Ron said, and after cramming a final piece of toast in his mouth, led them out of the hall into the deserted alcove beneath the grand staircase.

Harry was reluctant to take the wrapping off his hand, but an absolutely fearsome look from Hermione made him give in. “Alright, alright,” he said, beginning to undo the bandages. “It's probably nothing, I just--”

It wasn't 'nothing,' though. It was a bit repulsive, maybe, but it certainly wasn't nothing. The skin around the writing on his hand was swollen and pus-filled, looking shiny and wet in the dim torchlight, though the words were still clearly visible against the puffy, infected flesh. The entire back of his hand was grossly inflamed, red and raw with streaks of dark purplish-black beginning to shoot up his wrist.

No, it wasn't 'nothing.'

“Blimey,” Ron sputtered, looking half-sick. Harry could hardly blame him; he felt quite ill himself at the sight, and he hadn't even eaten two plates of bangers.

“Oh Harry,” Hermione moaned softly, staring down at the ugly, infected mess. “Oh, this isn't good at all.”

“Oh, really? Thank you, I was wondering,” he snapped back, hoarsely. He wanted to throw up, but the pain in his head warned against it.

“This is serious, Harry. You've got to see Madam Pomfrey about this.”

Harry snatched his hand away, feeling it burning hot where he pulled it to his chest.“No, Hermione--”

“That quill is Dark Magic, Harry! And you've an infection, and who knows what else because of it? We don't know what else that quill can do! Maybe the writing is just the beginning.”

They were quiet for a moment, the full meaning of Hermione's statement sitting with ugly weight between them.

“But, I mean, c'mon, Hermione,” Ron said slowly after a moment. “Umbridge is crazy, but s'not like she'd do something...well, anything deadly to us, right?”

“Do you honestly think she'd care, Ron?” Hermione snapped. “Because I don't.”

“Well it doesn't matter,” Harry said, beginning to wrap his hand back up. He continued over Hermione's protests. “We can figure it out after class, all right? We'll be late to Defense if we don't get a move on.”

They understood the unspoken there: Harry couldn't afford another detention with that vile quill.

“Alright,” Hermione said reluctantly after a pause. “But Harry, after that you've got to--”

But she did not get to complete the sentence before being interrupted by a new and most unwelcome presence. “Well, well, lurking in the corridors are we? That will be five points apiece from Gryffindor, I think.”

The three Gryffindors froze upon hearing the dark, sneering voice from behind them. It was, Harry realized dazedly, now only his third least favorite voice to hear in the castle, securely behind Umbridge and Filch. Yet another thing this year had tilted completely on its side.

“Oy!” Ron exclaimed as they wheeled about to face Professor Snape, Harry hurrying to finish wrapping his hand. “The class bell hasn't rung yet! We aren't doing anything wrong!”

“And another ten for insolence, Weasley,” Snape replied, his black eyes glittering with cruel amusement, arms folded with superior self-satisfaction.

“Sorry, Professor,” Hermione interjected hastily after shooting Ron a quelling look. “We were just on our way to class--”

“I don't recall asking for your excuses, Granger,” he snapped nastily, but his gaze was pinned to Harry now, sharp and unmoving. Harry avoided eye contact, hiding his hand casually behind his back. Not that he would be so lucky as for it to escape Snape's notice. “What are you hiding, Potter?”

“Nothing,” he muttered shortly, looking at the grooves in the stone floor.

“Five poi--”

“Nothing Sir,” he amended hurriedly.

“Show me your hand, Potter,” the professor hissed, sounding positively dangerous now.

Reluctantly, Harry drew his hand forward, showing Snape the fraying bandages wrapping the entire thing. “It's, er...it was a Quidditch accident. I--”

“Spare me your ridiculous twaddle, Potter. I've no interest in hearing your exaggerated retelling of how you got what I'm sure is an absolutely terrible scratch.” With that, he grabbed Harry's hand before Harry could avoid it, and peered down at the wrapping with mocking, jeering concern. Harry bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood to prevent himself from making a sound, feeling his face burn with pain and embarrassment. After a moment, Snape shoved his hand away with a sneering scoff, wiping his own palm against his robe as if he had just touched something filthy. Harry made a concerted effort to appear casual and unaffected, letting his arm hand limply at his side despite the screaming pain.

“If you are done being fawned over, Potter,” Snape sneered, his pale face ugly and cruel in the shadowy light of the alcove, “perhaps you'd like to get to class before you are--” the bell rang. “Late.”

Miserable and sick, Harry hurried past him with Ron and Hermione close behind, trying not to pay any mind to the satisfied smirk the horrible git wore as they passed by.

 ----------

He got detention, of course. When they arrived at the Defense classroom, flustered and out of breath, Umbridge had looked as though Christmas had arrived early, her lips curving up in a simpering, sinister smile. Harry, in short order, had been assigned three nights' detention for tardiness and “encouraging his peers to engage in delinquent behavior.” Ron and Hermione were given no punishment, but the deeply sorry looks they kept sending Harry throughout the lesson proved clearly that they were suffering for it, nonetheless.

Harry, for his part, simply felt numb. His life had become a miserable nightmare, the likes of which he'd only ever thought to experience on Privet Drive. At least with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, he knew what to expect. This abject, unpredictable cruelty from all corners, on the other hand, was more than he could take.

He got through the rest of the day in a feverish haze, a glassy-eyed stare at Hermione enough to keep her nagging about going to see Pomfrey quiet. He was infinitely glad he'd finished nearly all his homework for the week last night, as he couldn't imagine trying to do it tonight, or at any point this weekend. Even less imaginable was the thought of going to Umbridge's office in a few hours, sitting at that desk, picking up that quill and-- he shuddered and could not finish the thought.

He ate no dinner that night, unpleasantly aware of too many eyes on him throughout the entire meal. Ron and Hermione kept glancing at him with worry and concern, as did Neville, sitting across from him, no doubt noticing his pale face. From the head table, he could feel the prickly, sharp triumph of Umbridge's gaze, and the heavy, searing glare from Snape, though he had no idea why the miserable man would still be glaring. What else could he possibly want to do to Harry?

Dinner was finished much sooner than he would've liked, dread filling up his stomach like a lead balloon as he rose from the table. Hermione and Ron stood with him, their faces studies in anxiousness. “Go to Pomfrey,” Hermione pleaded desperately as they walked out of the Great Hall. “She's legally obligated to do something, Harry! And it's not as if she'd just leave this, even if she weren't! None of the teachers would! If you would just--”

“Hermione, please,” Harry said, so weary his voice cracked as he spoke. Hermione fell abruptly silent, though he could feel her desperation beside him pulsing in time to the burning throb in his hand.

He knew he would not be able to properly explain why he didn't want to tell anyone. Yes, in part, it was because he doubted the staff's power to really do anything. It was obvious they no longer had real control of the school. And yes, he was avoiding going to Dumbledore because he didn't want to risk being blatantly ignored again. And he would not tell McGonagall who had warned him to keep his head down, after all, and whose fault would she think it was, really, that he was in the position he was in?

But the real reason, the one he could not quite bring himself to tell Ron or Hermione, was because he was, quite simply, afraid of not being believed. Afraid of telling someone, of telling anyone, and having them call him a liar. He was lying about how Cedric died, after all. Lying about the Dark Lord being back, lying about--

“I didn't fall down the stairs. I-- it was Uncle Vernon he...”

“What did your uncle do to you, Harry?”

--well. They never believed him in the end. And keeping a secret was easier than being called a liar when you told the truth. Harry knew that, and he couldn't bear the thought of it. He simply couldn't. Keeping secrets, on the other hand, he could do. Surviving, he could do.

“I'll have some Murtlap waiting for you,” Hermione said tremulously as they reached the start of the corridor that led to Umbridge's office. Her eyes shone wetly as she gazed at Harry. He wished, briefly, that she didn't have to feel so helpless over him. “Or maybe some healing paste, if I can make some or get the ingredients or--”

“Don't go getting yourself in trouble over it, Hermione,” Harry cut in firmly. “It isn't worth it, okay?” He conjured up a smile for her and Ron, though he knew by the frowns on their faces it was unsuccessful. “I'll be fine.”

“If you're not,” Ron said fiercely, “I'm finding Aragog, and I won't rest till he's eaten that miserable bitch.”

It was a testimony to the strength of their feelings for Harry that Ron would even consider finding Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest to seek revenge for him, and that Hermione didn't so much as sniff over the word 'bitch.' Touched, Harry smiled, feeling a bit better than he had in several days.

“I'll hold you to it,” he warned, and they all laughed before falling unpleasantly somber again. “Well,” He said awkwardly, “s'pose I'll see you in a few hours. More than a few, maybe.”

“We'll wait up,” Hermione promised, and Ron nodded, and then Harry turned and walked away, hand burning, and gut clenching at the idea of what he was about to do.

I'd rather slay another basilisk, he thought, and was completely disheartened to realize that he meant it.

----------

“Come in!” Harry had only to knock once (with his left hand) before she beckoned him, her voice positively gleeful. “I see you are on time, this evening, Mr. Potter,” she sing-songed cheerfully as he entered, waving him to his usual desk. “Punctuality is the first step to obedience! If you were any other boy, I might even say there was some hope for you.”

A burst of cold anger shot through Harry's fevered body, making his skin break out in gooseflesh. “Yes Professor,” he answered, his voice very careful as he sat down in his seat, and stared at the quill laid atop the fresh parchment in front of him.

“Manners, even,” She simpered, her voice needles in his pounding skull. “I knew a lesson could sink in even for you if it was repeated often enough. Let's make sure you've got the message, shall we? You may begin,” she paused here, her expression turning calculating in a cold, horrible moment. “But do unwrap your hand, Mr. Potter. After all, to know you're making progress, you have to see the results.”

Teeth gritted, Harry obeyed. The flesh revealed beneath the peeled-back bandage made his stomach turn. It looked much as it had this morning, only worse. The purple streaks shot further up his wrist, the red raw inflammation was angrier and larger, the writing itself even more swollen and yellow with pus. He could hardly stand to see it. But a glance at Umbridge revealed her eyeing his hand with curiosity mixed with cruel delight. The curiosity bit worried Harry. Was this not supposed to happen to his hand when using the quill? He didn't know which answer might be worse.

“Begin, Mr. Potter,” she said softly, smiling. A shudder crept up Harry's spine and, helpless, hopeless, he turned to the parchment and picked up the quill, pressing it to the paper before he could hesitate.

It was worse than he could ever have imagined. The quill had always stung and cut painfully, but now it was simply unbearable. He could feel it slicing, knifelike, through the red, swollen skin, bursting open the raised flesh with each letter. I must not... His hand was on fire, he could feel the mark of the quill clear through to his bone, the white-hot heat of it searing through ever fibre of his being. Blood and water welled up from the infected wounds on his hand as they were cut open again; he couldn't help but watch as it leaked across his skin in ugly rivulets.

And, to his horror, he felt an answering wetness rising up and stinging in his eyes. Harry did not cry, had not cried in years, beyond the very rare sniffle. Yet now, with each slight movement of the quill, each damning letter after another, fat drops of salty water welled up in his eyes, clinging to his lashes, and, finally, spilling out over onto his cheeks.

He wanted to scream and scream and never stop. It hurt, God it hurt so much. His head was pounding, and vaguely he realized he was shivering uncontrollably. He wanted someone to come in, to burst through the door, to interrupt, to stop her, to stop himself. But of course no one would come. No one ever did, really. His breath hitched on a sob.

“Continue, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge said pleasantly, her face cast in a warm pink glow from the cheery lighting of the room.

Harry did.